76. My Turf My Rules
MY TURF MY RULES
brIGHTON
These October mornings are some of my favorites.
The days are beautiful. The sun welcomes me through the haze and light fog.
It doesn’t assault me the way it does in the summer.
It’s gentler, softer, lulling me into the idea that fall is coming.
But it’s still Texas, so by noon, we won’t even know there was any haze to burn off.
The crickets are talking and the grass is covered with dew. Even the horses feel relief from the sweltering Texas heat.
They’ve done well, despite the drought. I’m leaving Strait, Luna staying behind to curl up in the corner of his stall, when my phone dings.
Braxton: Got your pistol?
Me: Is this our new “good morning”? Don’t know that I’m a fan.
Braxton: I wish. Where’s your firearm?
Me: In the glovebox.
Braxton: Not brilliant in this heat.
He can’t see the roll of my eyes. He wasn’t the competitive shooter; I was. But he’ll always be the big brother.
Me: Get that, but I’m not Annie Oakley, so…
Braxton: Beg to differ, but keep it close, please.
Me: You’re scaring me.
Braxton: You’re fearless.
Me: I eat death for breakfast.
This is true. My turf. My rules.
Besides, I was raised by a formidable woman, a father who raised me the same as my brothers, except they weren’t allowed to touch me even while he allowed them to settle things among themselves.
Not to mention two physically strong and shrewd older brothers.
There was no time for fear if I was to hold my own with them. Same with Layton for that matter.
Me: What’s going on?
Braxton: More to come. Just be smart.
“Well, thanks for nothing.” I mutter to myself.
Brax is not a man of few words. He lays it all out there. I wouldn’t say his texts are terse, but he’s communicating a lot in very few words. This is definitely not his style.
I move to my Wrangler and grab my pistol from the glovebox. Dropping the mag, I check it, rack it a time or two, assuring the dust and dirt of a dry Texas summer hasn’t found its way into the slide.
When I’m comfortable that it is functional, I pop the magazine back in and charge it to make sure there’s one in the pipe. I drop it into the grimy holster that hasn’t fared as well in the heat. I’ll fix that tomorrow.
I stay with the horses in the eerie silence.
No music today. Not after Brax’s warnings anyway.
Not that I enjoy silence, but I’d be a fool to distract myself when I need to be smart.
I’d be a greater fool if I gave someone cover.
And if Brax thinks I need my pistol, it’s because something or someone has given him that impression.
Not once has anyone ever asked me to make sure I was personally protected. Ever.
Not once.
So I listen.
And watch.
And keep busy.
When I hear the wails of an ambulance on the grounds, I also hear the whinnies of my horses. That is, just before I hear footsteps slowly hitting the hay-covered floor.
It takes me a moment, but resolve steels up my spine. I can handle anything I need to do today. Not that I’d be happy with it. But I can do it. I take a deep breath, settle my hand on my holster, and widen my stance.
That’s when the sound of Colt’s babbles hits my ears.
Cyler is moving to the back where the supplies are as Elias rounds the corner to see my hand on my hip. I quickly remove it and rush to him, pressing my mouth to his, wrapping an arm around his neck.
“Why are you here? What’s going on?” I step back.
He lifts Colt in his seat as if that’s all the answer I should need. “Your cameras… We need to repurpose them.”
“Okay…?” It comes out as a question as I turn and move to the computers in my office.
“Okay? You’re just accepting that? Who are you and what have you done with Brighton Ranger?”
The sirens move. I have no clue where, but the lights hit the barn differently, and the sound reverberates unlike it did moments ago.
“Something’s going on.”
“Yeah. And I’ll tell you, but I need the cameras. We need the cameras.”
I wiggle the mouse on my computer and log in to the surveillance system that allows us to have eyes on our horses.
They’re set up here, in the individual stables, and aimed at the paddocks.
There are also a couple in the trees around the property.
We’ve never used them for security, but had them installed on the off chance a horse were injured or escaped, we could find and help it.
I step back, allowing Eli to have better access to the multiple black and white squares that show the inner workings of the ranch. It’s not lost on me how easy it is for me to trust him, rely on him, and allow him to lead.
He leans in, studying each one. I see the ambulance I hear so clearly in front of Pop’s house. What the fuck?
“I want to know what’s happening. And I want to know now. I need to know what I can do to protect my family.”
“You’re doing it.”
“The hell you say. I’m not going to hide out in this barn while my home and my family are under… well, whatever the hell is happening. Don’t know who you think you’re dealing with Elias Finchley, but I’m not that girl.”
A hand snakes out and squeezes mine firmly. “Baby, you’re doing it.”
I adjust the cameras as much as I’m able.
The two that could catch public movement and can view the stables or the homes are grainy when zoomed in from that far away.
Better than nothing. This takes long enough that I note the ambulance leaving Brax’s house and making for the ranch gates.
Someone needs to tell me what the hell is going on.
I tap out a text to him.
Me: Elias got him safely here.
Braxton: Any luck?
Me: Alive, if that’s what you mean. If you mean thermal, I’m working on it.
Me: Never expected to use it on humans. The cameras are in all the wrong spots. I’ll keep you posted.
Braxton: Protect my boy.
Me: With my life.
Braxton: Don’t let it go that far.
Me: Love you too.
I turn to Eli who is cool under pressure.
His eyes scan the monitor as if looking for clues. “Do you need to send the ranch hands home for the day?”
“Why would I?” I’m confused by his question. “I can only guess since you’ve said nothing, but a threat is possible, not imminent. Right?”
He looks at me, face soft, but his eyes close like he’s formulating a response. When they open, he levels me.
“I met with the Sheriff and two of his deputies this morning, as well as Braxton, Emberleigh and Kimp.”
“I—”
He holds up a hand and continues, “Brax received photos this morning… Pictures taken of the ranch, the grounds, the goings-on, and pictures on the property. There were pictures of Colt, pictures of…”—his Adam’s apple bobs as his hands clench and unclench—“pictures of you, Bright. Whatever is going on, whoever is threatening Colt and your brother, they’re close.
This hasn’t just begun, and it isn’t friendly. They’re not doing it for attention.”
“But my family—” I can’t finish the thought.
He holds my eyes, as he continues, “Your family is under attack, if not physically, then psychologically. From what I’ve seen, this isn’t an amateur. If I were a betting man, I’d expect a coordinated attack, one from someone who doesn’t expect to lose.”
He reaches to pull me into a hug, but I shake my head, my hair flying wildly around me.
Energy pulses in my blood.
“So that ambulance?”
“I don’t know. But the FedEx truck outside Brax’s house hasn’t moved in an hour. And the ambulance has.”
I don’t put things together as fast as he does. “Is someone here under the guise of delivery and holding Brax?”
“It’s possible.”
Sliding my cell out of my pocket, I text Pop.
Me: You safe? What’s going on?
Pop: Fine, darling girl. Trust Eli. I love you.
A chill runs down my spine. Pop makes no bones about loving his family. He displays it day after day, week after week, year after year. His family is everything, and the world knows it. But he’s not one to text it much, so each time is significant.
Me: Love you too.
Sliding my phone back in my pocket, I grab Eli’s hand, my eyes snagging on a sleeping Colt in his carrier at my feet. “When I said possible, not imminent, you didn’t correct me.”
“If my gut is anything to go by, it’s both, and, I suspect, also in process.
At least one wave, anyway. The threats are about Colt, so I’m guessing his maternal grandparents got tired of going the legal route.
” He taps at one of the squares on the screen showing an SUV in front of the big house. Two people exit.
He slides his phone out and swipes screens hurriedly before lifting the phone to his ear. He pulls it back, studies it and goes again, this time leaving a message. “Kimp, you’ve got company. Check in.”
We’ve lost one of the people on the screen. We’ve lost both actually. The vehicle sits where it’s parked, but the occupants have disappeared. Like those movies where time jumps and you can’t figure out how a person vanishes.
And, in that moment, just like in the movies, time grinds to a halt.
I slide my eyes to Eli who stands sentry in front of Colt’s carrier.
The hairs on my arms lift, and my hearing picks up the far-away crunch of boots—too tentative to be someone who knows this place.
Then… on concrete.
Then... on hay.
When I see the barrel, I do not hesitate. Not even for a moment.
I draw.
I fire.
I fire a second time.
Call it brash or call it stupid, but adrenaline courses through me as the horses shriek and Colt screams.
I move.
I stand over a man, face covered in a black hood. Blood oozes from below him onto the ground.
I kick the gun from his hand and hold him at point blank range.
“Ranger Ranch,” I hear through Colt’s screams. “I need the police and an ambulance. Unknown assailant. Trespassing. He was shot twice when he drew on a resident who defended herself.”
A pause is followed by “Elias Finchley.” Colt’s wails pierce the ringing in my ears. “I don’t know. His face is covered with a hood.” Another pause. “Yeah. We’re at the stables. I’m hanging up, but warn the sheriff’s deputies we know of at least two intruders. One is still unaccounted for.”